Stranger Danger

Nothin' makes you feel more pedophile-y than having some mom holler "STRANGER DANGER" over and over and over again to her oblivious 5 year old as said 5 year old chats you up about her new baby sister while you push your smiley 15 month old on a swing.  Seriously lady.  Like I need more chaos in my house to the point that I'm going to kidnap your chatty kid and add to the collection?  Wishful thinking.

But that's not the best part.  The best part is that while walking over to remove her kid from the obvious threat that a mom like me clearly poses, she huffs about "wasting all that money on those stranger danger classes!" And then I didn't even feel creepy anymore because I started thinking about what goes on in Stranger Danger class and clearly the person who teaches that has to be the creep of all creeps.

But that's actually not the best part.  The best part was as I'm heading out of the park her 5 year old daughter says "Mom, you know why I talk to strangers?"  all snooty.

"Why?"

"TO SEE IF THEY'RE NICE!"

 

The Time I was "Given a Chance"

I was reminded of one of those moments that "molded me into the person I am" whilst sweating my crotch biscuits off on a sprint to the train this morning.

The year was 2003ish. It was the New York State Girls Basketball Class D something something blah blah blah finals and I was really soaking it all in, from the bench obviously. (Side note- just because one was born with great height, does not mean one was born with great hand eye coordination and a fierce competitive drive.)  

The whole town was there, all 2,000 of them.

There were like 2 minutes left in the game and we were down by 11 or 12 or 27.   For the love of God, it was some insurmountable number of points given the amount of remaining clock time but I know someone from my town is probably reading this going "there were 2 minutes 14 seconds left in the game, so and so had the ball..." Which is why I don't publicly list my home address anywhere.  

Now I loved my high school basketball coach.  He was the most positive, kind and patient man on the planet and he tried his damnedest to make me tough without making me cry.  I still remember him shaking his head with disbelief (not disappointment) when I apologized to a girl on the opposing team for what I thought must have been a really embarrassing blocked shot for her. I think he finally realized that my purpose on the team was more for comedic value than a physical contribution.  Poor guy.  

Anyway, there's this whacky long standing tradition in sports of "giving everyone a chance," (obviously only when that chance is so far out of reach of being fucked up by the second string it would take a LeBron James appearance to change the outcome).  My coach, like most coaches, was a believer in this tradition and so, with a couple minutes left in the finals and what seemed like a pretty wide point gap, he walked over to those of us at the end of the bench, tapped our heads and gave us the "you're up."  

Ho-ly shit.  I actually remember my buddy murmuring "No, no, no, no, no, no"  but it was really hard to hear her over the entire town yelling "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO."  I realize that the town wasn't exactly booing ME per say, but as a fragile 16 year old, I was pretty sure my great grand-kids kids would be learning about this game right after their teacher finished the chapter on 9/11.  

When the final seconds disappeared from the clock and I realized I hadn't pissed myself,  I appreciated my coach's wish to have us nerds feel like we were a part of the experience.  We felt it alright, and while I feared for all of our lives for like 3 seconds, I am glad it happened.  Would I have been totally fine experiencing it from my warm folding chair?  For sure.  Did I learn something about human nature and losing with class?  Definitely.  Did I still get to go to McDonalds after the game?  I did.

The next season, or maybe it was the season after that, I was a member of the starting five. Was it the traumatizing final minutes of that game that lit the competitive flame in my bones?  Was it the image of the crowd, foaming at the mouth, that made me learn how to use my hips to box heavy set girls out? Was it puberty?

All of the above.  But mostly it was because I just couldn't handle smiles like this from the crowd during those last two minutes of those games anymore:

Long story short, I saw those faces of everyone already aboard the train as I sat down on my swass (sweaty ass) and I'll tell you what, I'm leaving my house five minutes earlier from now on.  Too many memories.

Metra Pep Talk

My first day of Metra commuting from the burbs felt exactly the same as my first day of 4th grade in a new school.  Same khakis and all.

Here are a few moments from the "Jordan, listen here" pep talk I gave my brain:

1.  Choose your platform spot wisely because it will probably be your platform spot for the next 18 years until you move to California and stop taking the Metra.  Nobody switches platform spots, they just don't. (**Note- I chose the wrong platform spot and now I have to do it all over again tomorrow.)

2.  Keep an eye out for that annoying guy you work with who lives in your neighborhood because IF he sees you, you're screwed and he's your new commuting buddy.  He too, will be in this platform spot until the day he dies or until you move to California.

3.  Pretend like you aren't concerned that the train is 10 minutes late.  Everybody else is, except for that guy next to you who keeps walking up to the bumpy blue warning line and sticks his face out into the tracks to see if he can spot it first.  Everyone else seems to realize that we'll know the train is here when that guy gets smoked by it.

4.  Choose your Metra seat wisely because it will probably be your Metra seat for the next 18 years until you move to California.

5.  Similarly to point number 4, choose carefully because your comeback for a group of 50 year old women refusing to share a saved seat is probably the same as your comeback for a group of 4th graders refusing to share a saved seat - lots of tears.

6.  Don't beat yourself up if you laugh embarrassingly hard at your new commuting neighbors' corny joke about nobody giving you a "Metra rookie" hat even though I'm pretty sure that hat is my face.  Girl's got to suck up after dumping coffee all over said commuting neighbor.

7.  You are still way taller than everyone.

City Camo

Perfect city camouflage sighting today! I love that it does the exact opposite of what it does in the woods.  

Insert your own caption here:

  

The Search for the Perfect Hairdo You Already Have

My life changed forever the day I got that first group text from my mom.  I knew it was inevitable, that she would one day break free from the chains of antiquated technology that bound the Hoffmann family to VHS players and flip phones for decades.  That she would one day figure out how to add both of my sisters and me to the "To" field.  That she would then discover how to flip the camera around and take selfies.

But seriously, I don't think anyone could have predicted the magnitude with which this earthquake would strike, deep within the depths of a Wednesday afternoon... or far below on a quaint Friday evening when you least expect it.

We get the occasional picture of the cat sitting on my sister's face, or a beautiful Montauk sunset, or a cute picture of my mom and dad out on a date night.  But 96.7% of them focus on her hair.

Mom:  Okay girls, what do you think about this cut?  Way better than the other one right?

[A solid two hours of silence inevitably pass before I feel like a dick and cave because I know my sisters are stronger than I am.]

The answer that that question is always YES.  YES, I am being a smart beep and YES your chain has been yanked!  You know why?  Because the other two pictures you sent were these:

I know I'm not the most observant person on the planet when it comes to physical appearance (pretty sure I inherited that from my dad who has his own set of issues after she brings home the final product for his portion of the exam) but I have to believe that the only difference between these two pictures is that maybe she just woke up before the first one was taken.  Color wise, I'm stumped.

My mom has great hair - it's wavy, it's thick, she somehow knows how to use those big round brushes to get the back of her hair perfect when she blow dries it.  It always looks awesome and perfectly coiffed, if I'm forced to use that word.  But for the love of Lisa Rinna, I can't tell you the difference between how it looks now and how it looked 10 years ago.

Where I'm like Joe Biden and end up with verbal diarrhea in place of an opinion, my middle sister is like Dick Cheney, cold as ice and unresponsive.  My youngest teenage sister however (we'll call her the Ronald Reagan of group texts) is the most skilled of us all.  She always comes flying in with her manipulative jar of jelly beans and a big fat "Mom, you would look great in all of them, but I think you would look extra beautiful with the third picture."

And I can't even be mad...girl knows who butters her bread. 

BigFoot

Here's something I didn't think I'd be saying for another 50 years...I have to go buy a shoe horn today.  And just so you know, while I'm there shopping around in Oldpeopleville, I'm going to buy one that I can use standing up so that I don't have to break a sweat bending over to put my damn shoes on.

Me.

And I'm not sure if this is irony or not, but I have to buy said shoe horn to help me put on a pair of boots that I bought at American Eagle Outfitters, a store that everyone tells me is shopped at by tweens.

Ugh.

The Year of the Blue M&M

My favorite/most horrific Halloween happened the same year.  It was 1995, the year of the blue M&M...

Most years I would dress up like a gypsy.  My mom would lend me her cuff bracelets, I'd put on one of her weird hippy skirts with an obnoxious clinking gold belt, and she'd paint super thick eye brows and a giant fake mole on my face with her eyeliner, because "all gypsies have moles."  

This year was different.  Mom was feeling crafty and decided to let me choose my own costume for her to make from scratch. I think she was also feeling a little sorry for me because we had just moved to a new school in rural Kentucky and I was a giant loser, literally and figuratively.  Lucky for her, my taste has always been simple, yet classic and innovative.  It was a no-brainer, I had to be the blue M&M.  She stuffed some fluffy cotton in between two circular fabric panels, sewed and fastened them together and put a giant white "M" on the front and back of each.  Basically, I was sandwiched in between two blue pillows (you can go ahead and add functional to my repertoire).   

So the month before Halloween, my 3rd grade teacher instates this contest where we all have to guess what costume she's going to wear.  Which is totally self-centered and nobody cares right?  Wrong.  We cared.  We cared as much as a 3rd grader cares about cooties and Billy Ray Cyrus and Pogs.  For 31 long days and nights, we toiled over what Ms. Hammond could be.  She was pretty plump and very sweet so I remember thinking she would for sure pick like a pumpkin or a beach ball.  I made some pretty solid guesses with the hopes that I would impress the pants off of my 3rd grade love interest, Brady.

October 31, 1995 rolls around and I'm feeling amazing.  I dress myself in my standard blue M&M undergarments like denim overalls and a white long sleeve shirt (I really wanted to let the costume do the talking) and head off to school.  Because she wants us to be semi-productive that morning, Ms. Hammond makes us wait until lunch time for The Great Costume Reveal.   We all retrieve our respective costumes and begin assembly.  Because mine is genius, I gently slip it over my head, probably don't even bother to calm my static electrified hair, and take my seat.  The suspense is too much.  Brady says something stupid and everybody laughs, I probably blush.  But then everything goes silent, the door to the bathroom opens and out steps Ms. Hammond...

In a f*cking orange M&M costume.

And just like that, the mole-ridden unibrowed gypsy made a comeback.

Dream Job

Back in 9th grade, I took one of those career tests to match my skills set with potential career options.  Some people were told they would make excellent accountants or lawyers and others were told they could be actors, models or comedians.

I got matched as a funeral home director.

And so began my search for an inspriring career!  Considering I write blog posts about my lady parts and exes who LARP (live action role play) for fun, you can tell I haven't gotten very far.  But it's something I've been thinking about and here are a few of the most enviable positions I can come up with:

1.  The parking lot attendant at the gym near my house.  His job is to navigate people through vacant parking spaces and when he's not doing that he has to stand in a 6x8 foot metal box and do God only knows what, but he seems a lot happier than Donald Trump.  I wave and chat him up every morning but little does he know, I'm out for his job.

2.  The person who changes the billboards and bus station signs.  They are basically superheroes in my mind.  It does not get more mysterious than this job.

3.  A candlestick maker.  Those actually exist, someone who makes candlesticks! I wanted to open a candle shop when I was little because I thought it would be bad ass to play with wax all day.  I was definitely on to something.

4.  A wedding DJ.  I've vocalized my interest in this one before but was reminded that "no one wants to hear Fleet Foxes through their entire wedding reception."

5.  A funeral home director.  You're around sad people a lot, true, but you're also around dead people a lot, which means you can pick your nose at work and no one will catch you.

Playback

I came into work this morning and had to re-record my voicemail message on our fancy new phones.

Turns out playback's a bitch...

#1.  I know I've been in Chicago for almost a decade, but when did I start to sound like this?

And #2.  I knew I had a nasally voice, but when did I become this guy??

To make things worse, it took three tries to figure out how to say my name without sounding at first confused, and then scared, and then like Hitler.  

It took another six tries to figure out how to get through the suggested recorded greeting without stuttering "To b-b-bypass this greeting..."

Oy vey.

Stuck in my Turtle Neck

You know when you put your favorite turtle neck on and you stick your head in the arm hole and your arm in the head hole and squirm around trying to figure it out while you're still in the shirt? 

This is what learning how to use my breast pump at work is like. 

Breastfeeding is supposed to feel like one of the most natural things for a mother to do.  Pumping, it turns out, feels like one of the most unnatural things for a mom to do.  I remember when the farmers at the county fair switched to electric milking machines and the dopey eyed cows would line up with their fat udders hooked up to giant tubes and suctions and they'd get milked to oblivion, just absolutely milked.  That's me!

It all goes down in what is called the "Mother's Room":
Two weird things about the Mother's Room.  1) Prior to being a mom, I used to use the room to take naps when I felt like I was going to puke.  Knowing that 90% of the staff probably uses it for that purpose really grosses me out.  2) There's only one other mom who schedules the room to pump at alternating times.  I don't know why but even though she's not in the room, I feel like two sets of naked boobs* in that chair is just one too many.

Once I'm actually in the room, it's not terrible.  If we're referring back to the turtle neck analogy, this is the point where you just chill out and enjoy the peace and darkness that is the inside of your shirt.  I play a little candy crush, relax a bit, and try not to think about secret cameras that could have been set up by some perv employee. I pump some milk, bag that biz, and then sit there for a minute trying to clean the milk I splattered all over my outfit.  Usually I forget my cooler to store the milk and have to walk upstairs with the goods just hangin' out there for the world to examine.

Then I go back to squeezing an arm out of this stupid shirt. 

"How am I going to sneak out of here and clean my boob receptacle in the break room without everyone watching?"

So far, it's impossible.  I ran into my boss who asked me if I was down there because the microwave on that floor was better.  I said "of course."  I ran into another young guy trying to wash his coffee mug with his eyes closed like he was afraid he'd got breast milk in them and go blind.  The only people who don't acknowledge what I'm up to are the seasoned mom's too busy watching HGTV to care.  Some day I will be that mom.

I know it will get easier the more I practice, but basically I've come to terms with the fact that hey, if people want to picture me topless hooked up to an udder machine, then I should probably just shut up, enjoy my new rack, and take it as a compliment.



*Note:  I'm too immature to say breasts and too prudish to say tits, so boobs it is.

Loves First Touch

I'm not much of a planner.  I'm getting a little better now that I'm going to be partially responsible for setting the moral and physical framework for another human life, but still...baby steps.  So to really dive into this planning business, a couple months ago I booked a getaway for last weekend to scenic Galena, Illinois for me and my baby daddy. 

For most women, I don't think this is a big job.  Small town tucked away in a snowy-hilled part of Illinois she didn't know existed?  Check.  Intimate room with fireplace and whirlpool tub?  Check.  Friendly inn keeper?  Check.  I was looking for all those things, plus a couple more.  For example, staying in a room called "Loves First Touch" was a no no.  Number 1, I was booking the room at work so I refused to say "yes, we'd like Loves First Touch please" and number 2, I have a pineapple sized bump in my belly and loves first touch just seemed like a lie.  I compromised and put us in the Grand Romance Room which I tried to discreetly book in my office as "Sure, we'll take the GraRomsRoom please."

Before you judge me, please note this was my first time staying in a B&B and I've seen a lot of movies that end with divorce and severed heads at B&Bs. I needed to get it right.

At first I was set on finding an inn sans wall-to-wall dead people portraits but as it turns out they don't make B&Bs like that anywhere in the United States, so we settled on a night of peaceful slumber with Ulysses S. Grant and Abe Lincoln look-alikes watching from above.


It was also really difficult tracking down a room that wasn't plastered with an s-load of giant floral print wallpaper and matching comforters.  One of my old babysitters had a room she'd make us take naps in that had all of these features plus a bunch of creepy porcelain dolls and smelled like oatmeal.  My sister and I not ONCE shut our eyes in that room.


http://uglyhousephotos.com/wordpress/?cat=85&paged=2

 I ended up finding a place that mostly fit within these strict guidelines and it was an awesome, relaxing weekend.  Truth be told, I could be hanging out anywhere with my main squeeze and we'll have fun. Probably because we both get creeped out by signs that say "Welcome to the Inn!  Where you come as strangers and leave as great friends!"  And we both appreciate eating breakfast with random strangers who describe themselves as aspiring actors who currently choose to be liquor salesmen (a/k/a cashiers at a liquor store).  Always an adventure!

Moosh

Pregnancy is turning me into a big pile of moosh and I like it. I cry watching Dick's Sporting Goods commercials, I get giddy seeing miniature shoes and people, I create schedules, I plan meals in advance that don't include peanut butter or kraft cheese, and sometimes I make the bed.  It's remarkable.

Apparently my newly visible baby bump is turning everyone else into a big pile of moosh too.  Five months ago, I never would have imagined myself snuggling up in the warm embrace of a female Fed Security Guard on my way into work but that happened and guess what?  I lingered.    Fed Security generally makes you feel like a member of Al Qaeda for bringing a metal travel mug through the metal detectors.  That said, I didn't see it coming.  First she called me "honey girl," then she asked to put her hand on my belly and the next thing I know she's arms-out going in for the kill.  It felt like the time I hugged my 3rd grade teacher...I didn't want anyone thinking I was a kiss-ass, but it just felt so damn comfy.   I think I need to be cautious with this new familiarity that being pregnant seems to bring with strangers.  This is one of those situations where I will probably try to go in for the hug again tomorrow and find myself at gun point restrained by a pile of Fed Security guards.

Peters and Undercarriages

I'm extremely modest.  I blush saying the word penis or vagina or any version of the two and I still do the "if your hands hit below your dress hem line you are kind of skanky today" rule.


Love her or hate her, this is definitely a similarity between Zooey and me (click here and watch this short video for deeper insight)...

Pretty sure it started when I was really little and would confuse the words "bikini" and "vagina."  Like the time I went to the grocery store with my mom and yelled "Look mom, that lady's wearing her pagina in the gwocewy store!"  It's one of my mother's favorite stories and if you are a stranger on the sidewalk and talk to her for more than 4 minutes you are bound to hear it.

In every scenario our dads would consider this sense of modesty a good thing...except our dads never had to figure out how to slutify A-cups into a zookeeper or Hillary Clinton costume in college.

My modesty is no more apparent and debilitating than at my annual (and now that there's a baby on the way) monthly appointments at the lady doc.

I'll paint a mental picture for you:  The nurse comes in, tells me I need to put a robe on, I inevitably put the robe on backwards, I lay down on the freezing cold table and crinkle up that stupid paper and then freak out because I think some of my skin touched the actual table, I think about but most certainly do NOT put my legs into those terrifying stirrups until I absolutely have to and then I wait for this to happen...

Doc knocks on the door, I never know if I should say "Come in!" or "I'm naked!" or "Ready!" so I usually just mumble, she sits down in her chair and says,

"You can move down on the table a little further...keep going....ok you have about two feet to go...alright another foot...ok legs wider...wider...another 6 inches...a little bit wider."  And eventually she just gives up.

Once I'm in the correct position, I become the person who talks about everything but vaginas at the gyno.  I ask her what her Thanksgiving plans are. I ask her how her parents are doing.  I tell her about my Christmas bonus and how many pairs of socks I'm going to buy with it.

And then somehow I make it out alive.  Every single time.

So the last time I went to the doc for my monthly baby check up to hear the heartbeat, I was bound and determined to not let my modesty make me the most awkward person in my O/B's appointment calendar.  The door opens, she walks in, sits down on her stool, and I confidently pull down both my pants AND underwear.  Suck on THAT, bikini!

And you know what she says?

"Oh it's ok, you can leave those on today."

My Heroes.

I've been hearing a lot of buzz about these "inspiration boards" where people build a visual depiction of who they aspire to become, or who inspires their style or how they want to paint their kitchen.  Well I have one too.  My inspiration board is more of a "If she was a vessel for the miracle of life, I sure as hell can be too."

Here are my influences for the history books:

#1.  Snooki

#2.  Jay Cutler and Kristin Cavallari (Inspirational Couple of the Year...in this context)

#3. Rachel Zoe - only because it always looks like she's carrying a hot potato instead of her baby, but I'm sure the kid'll turn out fine.

 
#5.  Any Kardashian.  From now until the end of time.

#6.   Mariah Carey - twice.

#7.  Martha Stewart.

#8.  Keith Richards' mom.

#9.  The Trumps.

#10.  Obviously J Lo.

Lots O' Firsts

Sunday was a day of many "firsts" for me:

It was the first time I ran 26.2 miles.
It was the first time I won a medal for something that didn't involve me spelling anything.
It was the first time I used a port-o-potty 7 times in one day and still managed to pee my shorts a little.
It was the first (and last) time I used a port-o-potty 7 times in one day.
It was the first time I ate four pretzels and a banana out of some lady's Tupperware in Chinatown.

But the biggest and most exciting of those firsts was that I did all of it with a 12 week old baby in my belly! 

Some of you are probably in shock, "SHE ATE PRETZELS OUT OF A STRANGER'S BOWL WHILE SHE WAS PREGNANT?"

The other half of you are probably thinking "HOW did she become pregnant?"  And I'm 100% ok with explaining it to you but just know that it starts off with "When a man loves a woman..." and if you are anything like me when I was 10 and first heard those words, you will run out of the room bawling hysterically.

So heads up for a few more firsts coming your way in the next few months.  SPOILER ALERT:  The first time I fit into a B cup.  The first time I look down and see cankles where my ankles used to be.  The first time I shoot milk out of my boobs...the usual deeply analytical and educational material I assume you get from these posts.

Frodo Feet

Ain't nothin like a double leg amputee sitting on the corner of LaSalle and Adams broadcasting daily "SHE HAS GORGEOUS TOENAILS"  to get your buns to the nail salon.

Without this city's homeless population keeping my beauty regimen in check, I would be a troll.

I Guess You Could Call It Sporking Now.

It all began one fateful morning while spooning... 

I was taking on the traditional roll of little spoon, and my home skillet was fulfilling his manly duties as the tilted big spoon (for those who don't know, a full on spoon is when you're both laying on your side, the tilted spoon is when the big spoon is not fully on it's side).  Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, thoughts of flapjacks were dancing through our heads...and then it hit me, "what the fuck do I do with this other arm?"

Everyone knows the first arm is occupado.  You wrap that sucker over the big spoon, duh.  But the other arm? It's just hanging out there in all it's nubby glory being totally useless.  If you place it under the pillow or tuck it under your body I've heard you have to get it amputated.  If you put it straight up over your head, it gets stuck up there.  And if you try to cross it under your other arm, well then you're just uptight and shouldn't be spooning in the first place. 

Other than amputation, I can't think of a resolution so from now I'm thinking I'll just go with this cat move:



If you have any suggestions, send them my way.  It's too late for the cave people and hopefully my parents, but our children and our children's children will appreciate it some day.

No offense.

I see this poster every day, yet on this Monday morning the thought of having to do this to any of my coworkers makes me want to curl up into a ball on the couch with a jar of peanut butter, a shot of whiskey, a Real Housewives marathon and never ever ever leave.

King Size

Sarah Silverman said something like "self deprecation is another form of egoism."  True story.  But how else am I supposed to understand my monthly mail receipt of "King Size" magazine and process water cooler conversations like these:

Mail Guy:  Girl, why you workin' here?! You could be a model.

Me:  Oh thanks, that's super nice of you to say but nah, I'm good here in my cubicle.

Mail Guy: You tried it before?

Me:  Sort of, once in middle school.  They told me my hips were two inches too big and that I could get surgery to shave the bone off but my parents love me.

Mail Guy Who Really Knows How to Talk to a Woman:  Well they make those plus sized models don't they?

Me: Yes.  Yes, they definitely do make those.

Me (internally):  You sonofabitch.

I'll still drink it.

"What's your name?"

"Jordan"

"OK wait, Gordon?"

"Nope, Jordan, J.O.R.D.A.N."

"With an O?"

"Nope, with an A."